


The Road to CI5

by Jay Trent (Bluewolf458)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluewolf458/pseuds/Jay%20Trent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie's road to CI5</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road to CI5

_But I didn't do anything!_

Will Bodie clung desperately to that thought as the heavy leather belt struck again and again across his back. His teeth gritted, he fought against crying out, wondering why his father so obstinately refused to believe him.

But he was pretty sure he knew why.

He was paying for the sins of his older brother. David was a real tearaway, who lied as readily as he drew breath; Andrew Bodie was certain that his younger son was the same, and was determined to beat the wickedness out of him.

Finally, however, the boy could no longer control the scream that forced itself through his teeth.

Satisfied that this signified the defeat - this time - of his son's obstinate badness, Andrew Bodie threw down the belt. "Right. Now, there's no pocket money or dinner money or bus money for you till that broken window is paid for. You can go hungry and you can walk to school; that might teach you to respect other people's property."

Aware that if he even tried to speak his voice would break, Will remained silent. What could he say, anyway? He had already denied breaking the window of the shop at the corner, and been accused of lying.

The door of his bedroom slammed; a minute later the front door also slammed. Will let himself slide from his position bent over the hard chair to sit back on his knees, his arms on the seat and his head resting on his arms.

He hadn't broken the window. He hadn't done anything wrong. Resentment simmered in his heart.

The door opened; he recognised his mother's footsteps as she walked across to him. 

"Will, why do you keep doing things that make your father angry?" There was a tremor in her voice; she was clearly upset but her son knew that she would never even try to defend him. She was charming - even her son acknowledged that - but weak; a born doormat, she would never argue with her husband, would not even if he had been much less dominant than he was. She was just lucky that Andrew Bodie had never raised his hand to her, even when he was drunk. He reserved that for his son.

He took a deep breath, forcing control on his voice. "Mum. I haven't done anything. Whoever broke that window, it wasn't me. I've never lied to him, but he won't believe me. I could tell him my name's Will Bodie and he wouldn't believe me!

"He's sure I'm the same as Dave. Why can't he see that yes, I've looked at the example Dave set me, and I don't want any part of what he's done with his life! I don't want to end up in prison like Dave. And I'm tired of being punished again and again for things I haven't done!"

"Oh, Will! Your father had good reason to think - "

"Good reason. Oh, yes." His voice was full of bitterness. "Some acquaintance of his saw a dark-haired boy throwing a brick at the shop window - 'a boy rather like your Will'. So he believes it was me, not just someone who looked like me. He'd rather believe someone outside the family that he doesn't even know well than his son. He thinks I never tell him the truth, that I lied when I said I didn't do it. If I'd said I did it, that would have been a lie - and he'd probably have believed it. But he's my father; I won't lie to him. I can't win, Mum."

He pushed himself to his feet. "I'd like to lie down for a while, please." It was as near as he could come to saying he wanted to be left alone; he was fond of his ineffectual mother even although he had no respect for her, and didn't really want to hurt her feelings.

"Do you want anything, dear?"

"Yes. I want my father to believe me when I tell him the truth. I've never lied to him. Never!"

He went over to the bed and lay face down, moving slowly so that he wouldn't wrench his bruised and aching back. She looked helplessly at him for a moment, then went away.

Will lay still for a few minutes, then carefully rose again and went to the window where he stood, looking out over the uninspiring back yard to the equally uninspiring one beyond, knowing that this couldn't go on. His father's punishments, never light, had grown more and more severe over the last two years, and Will could see the day coming when his father failed to stop and either severely injured him or actually killed him.

He had basically been planning an escape for nearly two years, since just after his father had begun punishing him with greater and greater severity, and with this in mind he had been saving every penny he possibly could. Walk to school? He had been doing that for two years anyway! Do without school meals? The muck they served was barely edible and he'd been saving that money, too.

The money was hidden carefully, for he knew that if his father found it he would refuse to admit that it had been saved; he would accuse Will of stealing it, would confiscate it and Will would get yet another beating. If his mother found it, it would be the same; she had never been able to keep anything secret from her husband.

He heard the signature tune of Crossroads and knew that for the next half hour his mother would be glued to the TV, completely oblivious of everything else. Sometimes he thought that a bus could crash through the living room wall while one of her soaps was on and she wouldn't notice.

He moved stiffly to the chest of drawers and began pulling the drawers out carefully. Under each was an envelope, each one holding some of his savings. He went back to the bed, and sat on it, ears alert for the slightest sound that could mean his mother coming back, unlikely as that seemed, or for the noise of the front door that would signal his father's return. Not that he expected Andrew Bodie to return soon; he would probably head for the pub and indulge in three or four pints before returning. Will had never seen his father totally drunk, though he had seen him half-drunk more than once. In that state he had less than perfect control over his always short temper and it was far from clear what would cause a bad-tempered explosion - though Will knew that sight of him was one almost sure trigger.

He counted his money; nearly a hundred pounds. Not a fortune, but if he was careful it would do him for a while.

He went back to the drawers and carefully selected some clothes. His school duffel bag would serve as a case. He pushed his selection into it, most of the money, replaced a little in each of several envelopes, carefully stashed at the bottom, never once relaxing his alertness; if his mother returned she would walk right in, ignoring his age and the fact that he might be naked. He could clearly remember the humiliation of the day, nearly six months previously, when she had walked in on him one morning when he was only half dressed and he had asked her to remember his age, and if she could please knock in case he was undressed, and the instant and violent response of his father, who had been passing the door and overheard.

"She's your mother, boy, she saw you naked as a baby. What difference does fourteen years make?"

That beating had been relatively light, thankfully, though it was more because Andrew Bodie had to get to work than from any awareness that he might be over-reacting. 

Will put his school books in the drawer; he would need to have at least one book showing on the top of his duffel, he realised, and from his tiny library (what do you want books for, boy? You're not a nancy to be wanting to read all the time, are you?) he selected The Jungle Book and Wind in the Willows, both slim editions that would take up very little space, and slipped one down the side of the bag, where its outline clearly bespoke 'book' and the other into the top so that a corner just showed.

The small amount of money he had not put into the duffel bag he split between the various pockets of his school clothes. _Lucky I don't have to wear uniform,_ he thought. Even grey trousers and a blazer would have been something of a giveaway. The worn cords, thick tartan shirt and dull green anorak were the sort of clothes worn by any adult.

 _Just one more night,_ he thought. _Just one._

He took off his trousers and put on pyjama bottoms, experience telling him to avoid putting the weight of the jacket onto his bruised back, and lay face down again. It was not a positon he liked, but at least it put no pressure on his back.

He lay awake for a long time. The front door opened, and he heard his father's now-hated voice, and decided that the man was as drunk as he ever permitted himself to become.

 _Just go straight to bed,_ he thought. _Please, just go straight to bed!_

He was in luck. He heard his parents' door closing, and relaxed.

***

Breakfast was a difficult meal. His father glared unforgivingly at him, harshly reminded his mother that he was to be given no money for dinner or the bus. Will said nothing, and was promptly accused of sulking because he had been given a well-deserved thrashing. He remained silent, knowing that if he did speak he would be accused of impertinence at best, of outright defiance at worst, and that either would result in another beating - granted a fairly light one because of the need for his father to go to work. He forced down a breakfast that he didn't really want, for he also knew that failure to eat everything on his plate would result in punishment for wasting food.

His father finished breakfast, put on his coat, grunted an ill-tempered goodbye and left for work; Will breathed an inaudible sigh of relief, swallowed his last mouthful of bacon and said, "If I have to walk to school I'd better get going."

Mrs Bodie nodded. "I'm sorry, dear. I'd give you the money if I could, but I can't go against your father's wishes."

 _His orders, you mean,_ Will thought bitterly, but all he said was, "I know. 'Bye, Mum."

He stopped off at his bedroom long enough to grab his duffel bag, and left the house.

His feet took him to the docks, where he stood for a while watching a tramp steamer loading crates. That would be a means of escape for him, right enough; he wondered if he could possibly get aboard unseen. He would inevitably be discovered, he knew, but if the boat was two or three days out to sea, well, it was the sort of boat that would probably be glad to get an extra crewman and not ask too many questions about his age - he could, he knew, easily pass for at least two years older than he really was.

He heard a footstep behind him, and began to turn; too late. A sack was thrown over his head, forced down over his arms, and he realised with wry amusement that he was probably being press-ganged, possibly even by someone from the ship he was considering stowing away on. Luckily his duffel bag, with all his possessions including nearly all his money, had been securely hitched over his shoulder, and was now sharing the sack with his head and upper torso.

Will was lifted and carried not too far; he heard voices speaking in a language he could not understand; then he was carried a little further, and dropped to the ground. He hissed as the drop wrenched his back. He heard footsteps leaving and a door closing, and the click of a lock being fastened.

He struggled out of the sack and looked around. He was in a small room - no, a small cabin, for there was a bunk against one wall. Above the bunk was a tiny porthole; he crossed to it, realising instantly that it was not designed to open, and looked out. Although the cabin was completely enclosed, he could hear the rattling of chains as cargo continued to be put aboard the steamer - he had to be on board the tramp he had been watching; he had not been carried far, there was nothing else being loaded near enough.

He could see the water and the other side of the river; nobody there would see him. Well, what did it matter? This might not be quite the escape he had planned, but in some ways it made things easier. He glanced round the cabin again.

It looked as if there was a cupboard under the bunk; a quick check proved that there was indeed a shelved cupboard there. A chair and a tiny table made up the only other furnishing in the cabin. Where could he safely hide his money? he wondered. Investigation showed him that he could stash the envelopes in different parts of the cabin, always assuming that he would be left in this one. He decided not to risk it for the moment, but mentally registered the hiding places he had selected.

It was some hours before anyone came to the small cabin; by then the rattling of the cranes had stopped, and he guessed that the tramp's cargo was now fully loaded.

Two men stood at the open door, clearly alert for any attempt by him to escape, when a man in what looked like an officer's uniform entered. "You were watching us load." He had a harsh accent that Will Bodie could not identify. "It was a time when you should have been at school. You were perhaps a truant?"

Will nodded.

"You do not like the school?"

He shrugged. "Nothing wrong with school," he said offhandedly. "But I want to leave it and get a job. Get away from home."

"Your age?"

"Sixteen," he said. The lie came surprisingly easily.

"This ship needs a junior deck hand. The pay is not good, not for a deck hand - three English pounds a week and your food - but you would have a job and you would get away from home."

"The further the better," Will said.

"Your parents will look for you?"

"Shouldn't think so," Will replied. "But if they do, they won't look here, will they? Where are you headed... sir?"

The officer smiled, looking satisfied at the term of respect. "Spain first of all. Then Africa. We're not likely to come back to Liverpool for quite some time."

"Good. I don't care if I never see Liverpool again... sir."

"We sail in two hours. This will be your cabin; you had better remain in it until the morning. I'll see you get a meal. Report on deck at seven hundred hours."

"Yes, sir."

The officer turned and left, leaving Will still wondering what nationality he was, but not really caring. Being press-ganged was preferable to stowing away; the crew would have an interest in keeping him out of sight of the authorities.

The one thing he did not want was to be discovered and returned home. He could well imagine the beating he would get for 'concocting such an unlikely story'. It would probably be the one that killed him.

With the assurance that this would be his cabin - though the luxury of a single cabin puzzled him, he would have expected to have to share with at least one other crewman, possibly more - he unpacked his duffel bag and carefully concealed the envelopes of money around the small room.

Three pounds a week. He wondered if it would be paid weekly or monthly or in a lump sum when they made landfall. He could save that, too, though he would have to be very careful nobody found out where and how he hid his money; he did not for a moment believe that his new crewmates would all be honest. Not on a boat like this one.

One of the crew brought him a plate of stew and a pair of jeans - "Captain says to see if these will fit - what you are wearing is not suitable for the work on deck." He too had a strong accent despite his perfect English.

Will grinned at him. "Thanks."

"Do you speak Dutch, boy? Or even German?"

"A little German," Will said. "Is that what most of the crew speak? Dutch and German?" He began eating; the stew was really quite tasty, and he said so. "This is good."

"Danke."

"Oh. You're the cook?"

"Ja. Everyone else is busy just now, eat just before we leave. Dutch, that is what most speak. Not many speak any English. Only the Captain, the Mate and I. What is your name?"

"Phillips," Will said. "Andrew Phillips." Much though he hated using his father's name, the one name he knew he should forget, at least while he was on this boat, was Will Bodie. "My friends call me Phil."

"Deiter."

"What are the Captain and Mate's names, please?"

"Ah, yes. That is Captain Gerets and Officer Kaltz." Deiter grinned. "You started well, boy, calling Kaltz 'sir'. He will not forget that, any more than he ever forgets a slight. He is a good friend, boy, but a very bad enemy. The Captain is better than many I have served under, too. Strict when circumstances call for it; if he says jump, you do not ask where to, you just jump. At heart he is kind."

"Deiter?" Will was fast coming to the conclusion that Deiter would probably be a good friend too.

"Yes?"

"Why did they need a new deckhand? Badly enough to - well, kidnap me?"

"It is quite a hard life, especially for the most junior man on board. Especially when he is young - sixteen, seventeen. Your predecessor apparently decided he had had enough; he went ashore and did not come back." He looked at Will in silence for a moment. "This is the time for second thoughts, boy. There is no glamour in this life. There is hard work and danger, and sometimes unreasonable demands from those in authority over you."

"Oh. Well, I'm not afraid of hard work." Will grinned, "I'm used to being treated unreasonably, too. I just hope I don't get seasick."

"If you do, it will not last more than a day or two."

***

Will reported on deck next morning as instructed; indeed, he was five minutes early. Over the next three minutes four more men joined him, talking in what he could only assume was Dutch for he understood almost nothing of what was said; the only words he came close to understanding were very similar to German. Kaltz arrived exactly on time.

As Will had already noticed, though she was a tramp with a hull badly in need of a coat of paint, the ship herself was clean and neat, and he soon found out why. The men were set to mopping down the deck and washing down the paintwork. Much of it was make work, but it kept them busy. He noticed the other crewmen looking at him as they talked and guessed that he was the subject of their conversation. One of them laughed, an unpleasant sound, and was answered by one of the others in a way that stopped the laughter.

Their meals were eaten in the galley. This was Will's first sight of the Captain; however, he knew that he was unlikely to see much of Gerets, who gave his orders through the medium of Kaltz, the Mate.

The second day was a repeat of the first, and Will decided that monotony, rather than hard work, was likely to be the problem. An energetic, well-built boy, he was having no trouble at all with the work - just, for the moment, with the stiffness and ache in his back..

The trouble arrived during late evening.

His cabin door opened without warning - luckily he was just sitting reading - and the Captain entered. 

He jumped to his feet, wondering why he was being thus honoured. "Good evening, Captain," he said. Then he saw the look in Gerets' eyes, and knew. And remembering the laugh of the previous morning, he knew that the crew knew, but that only one of them was unsympathetic. *Deiter might have warned me,* he thought - and then realised that he had tried to do so, though in a very oblique fashion. 'Unreasonable demands...' Yes.

Gerets' eyebrows lifted. "Polite. I like that. Phil, isn't it?" He had hardly any accent; if Will had not known he was either Dutch or German, he would not have guessed from hearing him speak.

"Yes, sir."

"You are a very good-looking young man, Phil. Do you know that?"

Will was completely taken aback for a moment. Unlikely as it seemed, the Captain was trying to seduce him rather than just making an 'unreasonable demand'.

"Am... am I, sir?"

"Ah, those eyes! That mouth! And I am sure the body you keep so carefully hidden is just as beautiful. I would like to see it, Phil."

 _A fairly fast seduction,_ Will thought, _but it could be worse._ Slowly, he removed his shirt. Gerets walked slowly round him and stopped dead, staring at the discoloured back. "Phil?"

"My father, sir. He thought I had broken a shop window, and punished me for it."

"Had you?"

"No, sir, but he would not believe me. He preferred to believe a casual acquaintance who said it was broken by someone who looked like me."

"And so you ran away?"

"This wasn't the first time, Captain. The beatings were getting worse. I had to get away before he killed me." He hesitated. "Captain, I know what you want. You don't have to persuade me. I don't mind. It's not the first time for me. My uncle has used me several times since I was about twelve. I was beaten then, too, for telling lies about him... and he stood and watched and encouraged my father to lay it on harder. And a week later he raped me again. I always tried not to be left alone with him after that but it wasn't always possible, and every time... I hated him." He turned and looked straight at Gerets. "You look kinder than he ever did, and Deiter said you're a good Captain."

"I would prefer you to want it rather than just saying you 'don't mind'. But that is something that will come with time, I trust.

"Meanwhile, I will wait until your back is less bruised - it is painful, yes?"

"Really only if I move too fast," Will said, half stunned by the man's consideration. "It should be all right in two or three days."

Gerets nodded. "You will tell me when it feels better?"

"Yes, Captain. I will tell you."

***

Gerets proved to be a considerate and generous lover, and Will soon became genuinely fond of him. He was very careful to take no advantage of his position, and to let the crew see that he did not consider being the Captain's bumboy made him any better than they were; he continued to take his fair share of the work, and soon developed quite reasonable muscles. He soon picked up some Dutch, too, and improved his stumbling German, and for fifteen months was happier than he could ever remember being.

During that time they sailed up and down the African coast, carrying varying cargo from one port to another - the trip to Liverpool had been a one-off, taking cargo from a rich South African back to his relatives in Britain. 

He spent nothing, for he never went ashore; even when the rest of the crew left for a free evening of drinking, he volunteered to remain on board - in many of the ports it was wise to leave a guard on the boat. It made the others even more inclined to accept him as one of them rather than just the Captain's pet. That fifteen months therefore improved his savings quite considerably, to the point where he was beginning to realise he would be better opening a bank account somewhere than keeping a mixed bag of currency in his cabin.

And then everything changed.

Gerets had gone ashore to negotiate a cargo; and on his way back he was attacked. He fought off his attacker and reached the safety of the boat, but he had been badly knifed; fever set in and despite everything that was done for him, he died.

Three days later, Kaltz called a meeting of the crew. The owners had decided to appoint a new Captain rather than promote him; "Saying that I can best serve them in my present position. I know Captain Leutscher, and I will not serve under him although I will have to make one voyage to work out my notice if I wish to retain my mate's certificate." He looked at Will. "Phil, I advise you to move on as well. You can simply walk away, however."

Deiter nodded. "I too know Captain Leutscher; I think I too will walk." He looked at Will. "It would be wise if we went together, boy. You are too young to go alone."

Will looked from Kaltz to Deiter and back again. He had learned much in the past year and knew just how little qualified he was to survive alone in Africa. "Thanks, Deiter," he said.

***

They left that night, Will carrying the duffel bag he had brought from England, once again stuffed with his clothes and his two books, his money carefully fastened inside his shirt. Deiter carried a slightly larger kitbag. They slipped quietly away from the docks, for neither had official papers permitting them to enter the country. They went in silence for a while, then Deiter said quietly, "I think we are best to find a mercenary leader. Such men are always looking for new recruits, and ask few questions."

Will nodded, although he knew that in the darkness Deiter would not see it, but even as he nodded he wondered how Deiter knew that.

"Good cooks are always wanted. You can be my assistant, at least at first; you do not have the temperament to be a cook, but you do not have any training in fighting skills. You will be of use as my assistant, but you would be rejected as a fighter. You must learn to fight."

"I could always hold my own against the bullies at school," Will said. "None of them ever tried anything twice."

"That is good, but there is much difference between school bullies and the fighters we will meet here."

They walked for several days before reaching a small village. Will immediately realised that Deiter really did know what he was doing; there was a small mercenary band based in the village.

One of them - the obvious leader of the band - looked at Will with no interest at all, but his eyes widened fractionally at sight of Deiter.

"Well, well. I thought you'd quit the mercenary circle?"

"I did. I've been at sea the last four years, but I decided to come back. Phil here is my assistant; but he would like to learn to fight too."

The man grunted, looking at Will doubtfully. "How old are you, boy?"

"Eighteen." The lie came easily - he was used, now, to thinking of himself as being two years older than he really was.

Another grunt as the man looked past Will. "Josef - "

It was all the warning Will had, but it was enough. He dropped his duffel bag as he spun round; his attack on the approaching man was unskilled, but fierce enough to give Josef pause.

"Enough!"

Josef stepped back immediately; Will managed to halt his attack but remained watchful.

"Your reactions are good, boy. It should be possible to give you some training. Very well." He returned his attention to Deiter. "I am quite sure that Eric will be delighted to let you resume your position as cook."

***

The group was currently unemployed, but that did not mean they were idle while Alois Weber negotiated another job. He ran his little group with firm discipline; they spent hours training, and Will trained with them, learning both unarmed combat and how to handle guns; he quickly learned that only the unexpectedness of his unskilled attack had let him make any sort of showing against Josef, who bore him no ill-feeling at all, but rather took surprising pride in helping Will develop his fighting skills. In addition, he had to make good Deiter's claim, and assist the cook.

As the most junior member of the group he was paid least, but even that was more than he would have expected; but once in the field he quickly proved his worth as a fighter.

When Weber and half of the band were killed in an ambush, the survivors joined Krivas, but Will soon learned that things under Krivas were completely different. Weber had given thought to what he did; Krivas worked more by instinct, and as a result his group had more casualties than Weber's ever had.

By now Will was no longer helping Deiter, but his friendship with the cook continued and he usually shared Deiter's tent. Most of the men assumed that he was Deiter's bumboy, and he was happy to let them think so; he had seen how brutally some of them treated their partners, especially the young ones; when Will was with the men on patrol and Deiter remained at base, Will usually cooked, and the men knew better than take liberties with the cook, whether he was permanent or temporary; it was too easy for the cook to slip something into their food that would give them an uncomfortable day or two, and there were plenty of tales about the revenge a cook had taken on someone who had offended him. Some of them might even have been true. Not even Krivas, who was not given to respecting other people's rights, would risk offending the cook.

After some months, Deiter and Will left Krivas and joined N'Komo, one of the few African mercenary leaders; he had come from Cameroon to Angola and was surprisingly successful, for like Weber he planned carefully.

They went with N'Komo from Angola into the Congo, where N'Komo told them they could easily make a small fortune running guns, and it was there, three months later, that Will's luck deserted him and he was captured. Within half an hour of his arrival in the prison compound he observed a hapless prisoner being strung up and flogged for failing to show 'proper respect' to the guards. It made the beatings he had suffered at his father's hands seem like the tickling of a feather. Thereafter, he kept his head down and did nothing that would attract the guards' attention to him, firmly suppressing his instinct to defy an authority he did not respect in his wish to keep his skin intact.

When taken for questioning, he decided it would be safer to claim to be a cook - it was not altogether a lie, after all. The camp commandant studied him carefully; Will kept his eyes lowered, as if in respect. Ojuka clearly decided to call his bluff; "If you are a cook, then you can cook for the camp."

"Yes, sir."

Ojuka was clearly surprised at his prisoner's obvious willingness to obey, and Will guessed that it meant he was now totally believed. He wasn't a skilled cook like Deiter, certainly, but he was better than many mercenary cooks and he knew he could made a success of the job.

As cook he had a great deal more freedom of movement, especially when, a few days later, he failed to react to what looked like a reasonable chance to escape; he saw it for the trap that it was. The first realistic chance he got came four months later, and he made a successful break for it.

He knew enough - just - to find his way back through the jungle to what had been his camp. It was deserted, as he had expected, but he was able to retrieve the small tin box containing his last pay that he had carefully buried, then from the abandoned camp he was able to make his cautious way back towards what was for him friendly territory.

Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing where N'Komo had made his new camp; the man had no strong affiliation with any area.

So - he was on his own. It was time to look for a new employer.

***

He entered South Africa as illegally as he had crossed every other border since entering Africa, by night and very cautiously, watchful of every shadow.

He had been considering his options rather carefully as he travelled, having decided that he wanted a change; he was tired of the mercenary life, understanding for the first time exactly why Deiter had left Africa and gone to sea for some years. Unsure of exactly what he wanted to do, knowing he had no skills other than fighting, he watched for opportunity as he made his cautious way towards civilisation; and one day, not long after he reached a largish town, seeing a wealthy-looking middle-aged woman being attacked by three men, he rushed to her defence in a fit of gallantry; the thought that she might reward him with a reasonably-sized tip only dawned on him as two of the three backed off, leaving their companion lying where a well-placed punch had dropped him.

Jeanne de Vries took off her torn jacket, making a face as she did. "That was my favourite coat," she commented, with a self-possession that surprised the young man. She looked at him thoughtfully. "I don't think I've seen you around town?"

Bodie shook his head. "No, ma'am. I've been travelling, just got here this morning."

"Looking for work?"

"Possibly. If I decide to stay here for a while, I will need to find work."

She continued to study him carefully. "I can give you a job, if you're interested..."

***

She was good to him; a generous employer, she paid him well for his performance in her bed. He was not the first young male companion she had employed, he learned; she had been a widow for nearly ten years, and even in her early fifties she was still highly sexed. 

He treated her with gentle courtesy; she was intelligent, decisive, able to form an opinion and not afraid to express it, and to his surprise he quickly found himself becoming genuinely fond of her; being her lover was no hardship. It seemed that she, too, was fond of him; and he suspected from a chance word she dropped that at least one, if not more, of his predecessors had been quite scornful of her needs, and she was quite grateful for his apparent understanding of them. It was not a job he intended to fill indefinitely, but he was happy to remain in it for a while, paying his more than adequate salary into his Swiss bank account, as he considered his future.

He was walking down the street with Jeanne one day when he had been with her for not quite five months when they were attacked by a group of three men - three white men. Who they were he did not know, but he was not about to let them harm his employer, and he fought back fiercely, knowing that they would underestimate him; if he was quick, he stood a chance of taking them. A fist to the stomach left one winded, gasping for breath; he ducked a swung club meant to flatten him and kicked its wielder in a part of his anatomy where no man ever wanted to be kicked, making him, too, fall, clutching himself in agony, and as the third one, seeing this, hesitated just a split second, Bodie pulled out the gun he always carried.

He glanced at his employer, silently asking what she wanted him to do, but the decision was taken out of their hands by two policemen who arrived at a run. They gathered up the three attackers, making the unhurt one and the winded one, who by now had regained control of his breathing, carry the third, who was still writhing in agony - Bodie had not pulled his kick in any way, and saying that they would be in touch for details of the attack; Jeanne de Vries was well-known and instantly recognised by them.

As they made their way homeward, Jeanne said quietly, "You've made some bad enemies there, Phil. I think you would be best to get out of the country."

Bodie shrugged. "They won't be the first," he said lightly. Then, "You know them, then? The attack was deliberate, not just opportunist?"

"I think so. My husband had a partner, Hans Winkler. They were together for nearly thirty years, but they split, somewhat acrimoniously I have to say, about six months before Richard died - it seems that Hans was less than honest in all his dealings, and Richard finally discovered it and objected. Hans, for his part, claimed that it had made them both rich, and that Richard was being a hypocrite by objecting to his methods, having accepted them for so many years. But they needed each other - Richard realised within weeks that on his own he was less efficient, and retired. Hans carried on, but his business failed last year, after he had lost nearly all of his fortune. Those three men work for Hans; I think he perhaps planned to kidnap me and force me to marry him, in order to get his hands on my money."

"You must have a reason to think that?"

"He asked me to marry him just before his business collapsed. But I refused him; told him I would not even consider him as a possible husband." Bodie nodded, and she went on. "I loved my husband, and I do not wish to remarry; especially I do not wish to marry a widower who has already buried two wives. Also, I knew why Richard had broken their partnership, and I agreed with his reasons."

Bodie thought for some moments. "You don't suspect him of having anything to do with your husband's death?"

"No. Richard had cancer, which was diagnosed about two months before he died. He had had no pain, no problems, no reason to think he was anything other than completely fit and well; the pain that sent him to his doctor came on very suddenly. His death was quick, but... not quick enough. He suffered a great deal in those last two months."

"But it was definitely cancer, not poison?"

"No, Phil, not poison. The swelling in his stomach became quite pronounced in the last month, especially after he stopped being able to eat anything solid."

They walked on in silence for some moments, then she said quietly and openly, "I like you, Phil; you have been kind to me. A woman in my position is often laughed at behind her back by the young men she employs, even while they take her money. You seem to understand that even at my age I have certain needs, and do not think it foolish of me to seek to satisfy them - even although I am old enough to be your mother."

"I could wish my mother had been someone like you," Bodie replied truthfully.

Jeanne glanced at him, seeing a momentary flash of bitterness in his eyes, and wondered at its cause, but she said nothing until they were nearly home.

"I can take steps to protect myself from Hans Winkler," she said slowly, "but I can do little to protect you. Yes, I know you look deceptively harmless, but word will get back to him of how easily you disabled two of his men. You will not be as lucky next time, I think. Next time he will be out to have you killed. You should leave Africa, Phil, and soon."

Bodie shook his head. "Impossible. I have no passport. I came into the country illegally."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Nothing is impossible to one who has money," she said. "But it will be easy enough to get you a passport."

"I would need a British one," he said.

"That will still be quite easy, though you will have to use a different name," she said as he opened the door for her. "We will see about it tomorrow."

She spent some time on the phone that evening; next day they went to the British Consulate.

"All you have to remember," she said, "is that your name is Kevin McArthur. You are my nephew, the son of my sister who married an Englishman. When her husband died she returned to South Africa with her baby son who at the time would be about two months old. She died last year, and you then came to live with me."

Bodie looked at her. "How much of that is true?" he asked curiously.

"Almost all of it. Kevin disappeared several years ago, in circumstances that... well, he is almost certainly dead. When you return to England you can resume your own identity."

"Jeanne... Aunt Jeanne. All I can say is thank you."

***

Armed with the passport, it was easy enough for him to book a plane ticket to London for later in the week. At the airport, he bade Jeanne de Vries an affectionate farewell. "I won't forget you, Jeanne," he said quietly. "I won't say I love you - we both know that would be a lie - but I will remember you with considerable affection. You've been very good to me, and I do appreciate it." In this public place he remembered their supposed relationship and kissed her cheek. Then he turned and without looking back walked through the gate to his plane.

***

Once in Britain, he considered the false passport thoughtfully; then he slipped it into an inside pocket. It might, he thought, be of use to him at some future date.

He took a room at a cheap B&B while he considered his next move, and decided that his best bet would be the armed forces. He was still young enough that he could get away with the story that he had been abroad for two or three years, travelling with his parents, to explain his lack of a national insurance number and inability to provide proof of recent education at college; especially if he reverted to his real age. If he claimed that his parents were dead, killed in an accident shortly after their return, and that he had no other relatives, there shouldn't be any problem, he thought.

A day spent studying the newspapers in the local reference library gave him the names of an elderly couple who had been killed in a road accident a month previously, and he promptly 'adopted' them as his mother and stepfather.

There was less of a check-up on his background than he had expected, however; the recruiting authorities accepted the names and the condition 'deceased', without asking for more details than he had gleaned from the report of the accident, and W A P Bodie (after consideration, he had decided it was time to resume his own name) soon found himself in training - training he found relatively easy, for he was fit and strong and in many ways service life was easier than life in the mercs had been. It was perhaps unsurprising that after a stint in the Paras, including time in Belfast, he ended up in the SAS, and when his period of enlistment was drawing to an end, he sat down to give serious thought to what would be his best option - sign up again, or move on? In some ways, signing up again was an attractive option; but he was getting surprisingly restless, and knew that it was indeed time to move on.

The offer of a job in the recently-formed CI5 came as a surprise, but he knew George Cowley slightly, since the Major had spent some time with the SAS during the preceding six months, helping to set up training exercises. An older man, not perhaps quite as fit as he might have been though the limp he couldn't quite hide explained that; but he had a mind that Will Bodie could respect. Only Bodie's jungle experience had enabled him to be the only man to avoid a trap set by Cowley in the course of a cross-country exercise across 'hostile' territory and finish the course. Cowley, he considered, had a decidedly devious mind.

Bodie thought about the offer off and on over the next two days, and finally decided to go for it. He had been with the SAS long enough. Basically, he had a fair idea of what to expect from the unit. With Cowley, he suspected he would see a wider range of activity, and he had always felt that a degree of uncertainty in his life added a bit of... well, oomph. It kept the adrenaline flowing, and in his more honest moments he suspected that he was something of an adrenaline junkie.

Although his time in the army was drawing to an end, he had expected to have some difficulty leaving the SAS before the actual date; but Cowley, it seemed, could pull strings, and quicker than he had any right to expect he found himself a civilian, albeit with orders to report immediately to George Cowley.

***

CI5 headquarters turned out to be in a surprisingly unobtrusive building - so much so that as he entered it, Bodie found himself wondering if he was in the right place. A door marked 'Office' drew his attention, and he went in; it was a small room, and as he entered, its single occupant looked up from her typewriter. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Mr Cowley," Bodie said.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Not really," Bodie said. "I'm just out of the army, and I got orders to report to Mr Cowley as soon as possible."

"Ah." She reached into a drawer, and took out a sheet of paper. "Can I have your name?"

"Bodie," he said.

She glanced down the paper, nodded and reached for a phone. "There's a Mr Bodie here to see you, sir. Yes, sir." She put the phone down. "Turn right when you go out the door, two doors down and Mr Cowley's name is on the door."

"Thanks."

Bodie followed the directions, and knocked on the door.

"Come in!"

Cowley stood to greet him as he entered. "Ah, Bodie. Welcome to CI5. You understand that you're on probation for six months - this is mutual. Inside that time, if you feel you aren't fitting in, you can resign, effective immediately, just as if I feel you aren't fitting in, I can tell you so and you're out, also effective immediately."

"Yes, sir."

"You'll be assigned to work with a partner - "

"Excuse me, sir, I'd rather work alone."

"Perhaps when the probationary period is over, but for the moment you'll have a partner. I know you're an experienced fighter, but this job isn't just about fighting; some of the time we're tracking down suspected terrorists - almost police work - and you have no experience with that, do you?"

"Well... no."

There was another knock on the door. "Come in!" Cowley snapped.

The newcomer was roughly Bodie's height, but whippet-thin. For a moment Bodie wondered what had damaged the man's cheekbone, but decided he wasn't interested enough to find out.

"Ah, Doyle. This is Bodie, your new partner. Bodie, Doyle is an ex-copper; learn from him."

Bodie looked at Doyle consideringly, aware that Doyle was studying him as intently. He wasn't particularly impressed; the man looked as if a strong wind would blow him away, but at the same time Bodie knew that Doyle must have more to him than was immediately obvious, or he wouldn't be in CI5 and Cowley wouldn't have been partnering him with... well, a rookie, Bodie admitted to himself, though he was damned if he'd let Doyle see that he recognised that.

And, well, it wouldn't be the first time he'd had to work with someone he didn't particularly want to socialise with.

"All right," Cowley said when the silence between the new partners had stretched for about a minute. "Doyle, you can start by showing Bodie the ropes around here. You're both on surveillance duty from sixteen hundred hours until midnight - Doyle, you know where."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Bodie followed Doyle out, pulling the door shut behind him. Doyle grinned. "The Cow's like that - doesn't waste words. You don't want to take it personally."

"I don't. But let's get one thing clear, Doyle."

"Yeah?"

"I don't want a partner. Once my six months' probation is up, I'll be applying to work on my own."

"Fine by me," Doyle replied. "I don't particularly want a permanent partner either; you're the third one I've been lumbered with for six months, probably because of my time with the Met. Okay, the break room is down here... "

***

Within a month, both men were surprised at how easy they found it to work together.

Bodie hadn't wanted a partner; in Doyle he found one that he trusted as much as, years previously, he had trusted Deiter. Briefly, he wondered where Deiter was, then shrugged; it wasn't likely he would ever find out, but he wished the man well, wherever he was.

Called in to Cowley's office at the end of six months, Bodie faced his boss.

"Well, Bodie, you've successfully finished your probationary period," Cowley said.

"Thank you, sir."

"Still want to work solo?"

Bodie scowled. "I'll work with Doyle," he said. "Nobody else."

Cowley's face relaxed in as close to a smile as he seemed capable of. "Doyle's never wanted a permanent partner either," he said, "but oddly enough, he said much the same thing; that he'd work with you, but nobody else. He's got the details of your next job. Go and find your partner, Bodie, and start earning your pay for the week."

As Bodie turned to leave, he knew that here, finally, he had found the home - and the family - he had been subconsciously seeking for practically all his life. Deiter had been something of a father figure to him; Jeanne hadn't exactly been a mother figure, but she had been someone he would have been happy to have as a mother. Now - although he would never admit it - he had another father figure in Cowley, and in Doyle, a brother figure he could respect as he had never respected his blood brother.

And he wondered... in time, might he and Doyle become even closer?


End file.
